Deadweight

The boiled wool is rough against my jaw,

smelling of cedar and his old, sour sweat.

He slipped, and for a second,

we were a single, staggering mass

buckling toward the floorboards.

I shoved my shoulder into the hollow

of his ribs, bracing for the crack.

His heels dug two deep, ugly grooves

into the beige carpet,

resisting the pull that wants us both

flat against the joists.